


a melody of reformation

by irisella



Series: ruby blue [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/F, they're all girls lmao, tw for mentions of suicide & substance abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisella/pseuds/irisella
Summary: When Richelle Campbell Gansey III is fifteen years old, she meets Rowan Niall Lynch for the first time.





	a melody of reformation

**Author's Note:**

> title is from sleeping at last's 'one' bc it fits gansey well, & also, they're a v great band & i hc that the entire gansey obsess over their music. 
> 
> tw: stated in the tags, pls read with caution.
> 
> hey, so. i made them ordinary girls. you better believe that even then they'd all have a sort of special type of love for each other. this does focus primarly on ronsey's friendship throughout the years & it does feature a few possible romantic encounters between the two. don't worry, you know who the endgame couples are.

When Richelle Campbell Gansey III is fifteen years old, she meets Rowan Niall Lynch for the first time. 

It’s her first day at at Aglionby, and she’s eager and nervous and a ton of of other things she can only really place down as some sort of excitement. She’s lived in England, in France, in various parts of Poland, briefly, but she’s not been back in the States since she was eleven. Not that she really missed it; Gansey would travel all her life if she could.

She’s also lost. 

She’s great with directions, has been since she was old enough to read, but she’s been walking for ten minutes and all all she’s really getting at is that the board must be big on mahogany and polyurethane. Aglionby is slightly different than the school she went to in London, it’s certainly smaller. There’s supposed to be a difference between the academic buildings and the ones meant for dorms. To Gansey, they all kind of look the same. 

She’s rounding the corner, coming off the nearly empty hallway adorned with paintings instead of posters, bronzed heads instead of trophies—although she’s seen _plenty_ of those around here, too—when she smacks right into a girl. Gansey apologizes fervently, and the girl, who’s standing like she hasn’t just been knocked in the chest, brushes her off with a snort. She’s pale skinned and blue eyed and has dark hair that curls just like Judy Garland’s. She’s panting a bit from the scare, but she’s smoothing down her slightly rumpled sweater and hitching her bag up a thin shoulder with an amused little smile.

Gansey feels a little out of breath for an entirely different reason. “I was walking much too fast, I apologize.”

“Don’t be,” she says, “It’s on me.”

They’re both quiet for a a few seconds. Gansey fidgets with the ring on her finger before sticking out her hand. “I’m Richelle Campbell Gansey the Third.”

The girl blinks at her and loosely shakes it, a dark eyebrow going up. “Rowan Lynch.”

Gansey instantly brightens. “A pleasure. Rowan, would you mind showing me where the dining hall is?”

Rowan laughs like she’s just been proposed to, her eyes crinkling by the corners. Gansey thinks it’s perhaps the nicest thing she’s ever seen. “Sure. We have four of them, though. And most of the kids are mean.”

She nods, decidedly okay with that. She’s not really looking for best friends, she has no idea how long she’ll be in Virginia for, much less Henrietta. Of course, she wouldn’t mind a buddy to accompany her on her trips. She’d found one at nearly every school she’s ever attended. Always, because for Gansey, the worst part of being an explorer had always been going at it alone. 

Gansey says, “I’ll face it just fine. Excelsior, onwards and upwards!”

Rowan smiles a wicked, kind thing. “Come on, Gansey the Third. You can have lunch with me.”

…

Rowan’s right, kids _are_ mean. Just not particularly to Gansey.

Sure, her first day had been hell. Being the new girl at a prestigious academy is not the easiest thing in the world. Not when you’re supposed to be competition. But Gansey’s, well, _Gansey._ She’s known she was beautiful since she realized she looked a lot like Helen, and she can speak Polish and French and she knows how to shake someone’s hand without making them feel intimidated. She gets excellent grades, she joins the rowing team. It only takes a week for girls to start asking her to go places, some which Gansey quickly excuses herself out of. _Most_ of which Gansey quickly excuses herself out of. She’s not fond of ragers. Or beer pong parties, for that matter.

Rowan, on the other hand, is as witty and sarcastic as she’d looked to be when she first introduced herself. She has a dark sense of humor that should be offensive, and it _is_ , but mostly she’s just expressive. Loud. Erratic, even. Some girls like that, some girls don’t. Either way, no one really says anything to her about it and Gansey never sees her alone. 

It takes a while, but Gansey isn’t all that surprised, because when Rowan swings her legs back and forth underneath the desk and fondly rolls her eyes when Noah goes off about the influence _The Rugrats_ had on television, she starts beginning to understand _why._

…

“Hey,” Gansey says as she slides next to Rowan during Algebra I. She hates how informal she sounds, but so far Rowan’s not really hitting her as the type to care, or the type to be friends with someone who does, so she’s going to try her absolute hardest not to worry about it.

Rowan smiles and closes the book she’d been highlighting, burying it underneath a messily complied binder, “Hey yourself.” From where she’s sitting, Gasey can see she’s gotten an industrial piercing on her right ear, it shines silver and resembles that of an arrow. Somehow it suits her exceptionally well. “Yeah,” Rowan tucks a black curl behind her ear when she notices her staring, grinning proudly, she says, “Decla said it looked tacky.”

Gansey shakes her head and puts a hand on her arm. “I think it looks divine.”

Rowan flushes a bit at that, which makes her smile. She’s never met someone as interesting as Rowan before, not like this. Rowan is creative in a way that demands attention, she makes X’s and Y’s seem terribly mundane, she gets As in Global and Latin, she’s been recommended for AP English 11 already, and it’s only _fall._

“Thanks,” she finally says. “So does my Dad.”

Gansey nods and keeps her arm in place, only shifting away when their teacher bursts into the room in a furry of seriousness and sophistication. Their knees knock together underneath the desk. 

Halfway through the lecture, Gansey angles her head towards Rowan’s, nudging her hand with her thumb. “Rowan,” she says, seriously enough that Rowan’s fingers tighten around her pencil. “How do you feel about Welsh kings?”

Rowan grins.

…

Gansey promises to talk to her about it. Rowan’s not much for History, even if she’s seemingly great at it, but she likes that Gansey’s into it. So two days later, Gansey waits for Rowan outside of the tennis court, clutching her Vuitton messenger bag in one hand and a bound, leather journal in the other.

“Christ,” Rowan says, leaning against the chain link fence. “You look like our History teacher.”

Gansey frowns a bit, but she doesn’t really take it as an insult. She hesitates, and then she hands her the journal. “I’m very dedicated.”

She flips through the pages, the little furrow between her brows makes Gansey flush. “I can see that.”

“We don’t have to—”

“Oh,” Rowan interrupts quickly. “No. It’s just. Some of this is in French, and, well. Something else.”

Gansey’s eyes widen in both relief and surprise. “Of course. I apologize, it completely slipped my mind. Yes, French and Polish.”

Rowan looks up. “Polish?”

“Yes.”

She looks like she might say something else. Something actually insulting this time, and Gansey holds her breath, waiting. To both take the notebook back and formulate a rebuttal statement in her head. But Rowan only sucks in a sigh and says, “Well, I can speak fluent Irish, so.”

Gansey smiles. “So.”

Rowan smiles back. Gansey talks until the sun fades away.

…

That same night, Gansey takes Rowan to the woods for the first time.

The air is cold and dry, but the trees welcome them in with a timid breeze. Gansey’s wearing trousers and a peacoat and Rowan’s tennis skirt has been swapped for skinny jeans and a _Trinity College Dublin_ sweatshirt; they hold hands, and when the day dips dark, Gansey wraps her silk scarf around Rowan’s slender neck. Even under the moonlight, _especially_ then, Rowan’s still the most frighteningly beautiful person she’s ever seen. Her thin lips catch on a grin when she notices Gansey’s eyes on her mouth, but she says nothing about it as she drags them back towards the hiking trail. 

“What’s the deal with you and Glendower, anyway?”

Gansey shrugs. “He saved my life.”

Rowan looks amused. “ _Okay._ ”

“I’m serious,” she says. “When I was little, I came across a nest of bees.”

Rowan stares like she has no idea what she’s going on about.

“I’m _allergic_ to bees,” Gansey says, exasperated. “I was attacked. My parents were hosting a house party, so it took them a while to get to me. Well, when we were in the hospital, my sister spent every spare minute reading to me about Glendower.”

Gansey stops walking because Rowan does first. She looks a little pained as she says, “Did it hurt?”

“I mean, I did go into anaphylaxis shock.”

She makes a noise between surprise and admiration, and without much bravado, she takes Gansey’s hands in hers again. They’ve gone cold.

Then, “Technically, you weren’t attacked. You imposed yourself on their land”

“It was my backyard—”

Rowan brings her free hand up to silence her, and Gansey’s mouth opens again before she snaps it shut, baffled. Rowan continues, “And also, out of all the kings in the world. _Glendower_.” She brings their tangled hands up in a show of disgust. “I can’t believe it.”

Gansey laughs, the tension in her shoulders undoing itself entirely. “Shut up, Lynch.”

“Whatever, Gans.”

They’re both laughing now, warm once more under a frozen, early fall sky and a trillion little stars that surround their heads. If Gansey were to look up, she’d understand what it meant to be immortal. Some sort of legend. 

She’s holding hands with one of them, she’s sure. A pale, spectre of a cosmic thing. A brand new kind of magic. 

…

When Gansey walks into the Aglionby’s second dining hall, Noah’s there and Rowan isn’t. Which at this point doesn’t really surprise her, Rowan probably got caught up with someone in the hall, or is just coming out of some artsy club, and hopefully not—it’s happened at least twice now—being kept after class to talk about her behavior. 

But when Gansey sits down, Noah levels her with an unusual _look._

“Rowan and I have been friends since freshman year,” she says as a way of greeting. Gansey nods at this, folding her hands neatly on her lap. She’s not quite sure where this is going. 

“She’s religious, don’t ask me why. She just is, and she’s mean. Can be. Not to you, not yet. But she can be.”

Gansey blinks a few times before pushing up her glasses by the rim, unsure of what to say about that. She knows these things about Rowan, granted, it’s only been a few months, but she’s observant. She’s lovely, and very much human, and she’s quickly becoming one of her favorite people. So is Noah, so she’s not quite sure what she’s supposed to say to her, either. 

“But, she’s always been there for me when I needed her to be.”

Gansey gathers her thoughts before she pats Noah’s hand, not unkindly. “Noah, I’ve known those things for a while now.”

“I just meant—”

“She’s my friend,” she says, a bit more abrasive, “I’ll be careful with her.”

Noah relents, sighs and pushes her lunch aside. That doesn’t surprise Gansey either. “Yeah, Gansey. I know you will.”

Gansey allows herself to smile at her before she takes a bite out of her turkey sandwich, pushing a juice box in the direction of Noah’s tray. Rowan’s not back yet, so Gansey figures it’s just the two of them today.

“Gansey?”

“Yes?”

“She’ll be careful with you too,” Noah says, colgate white teeth flashing around the straw, “She keeps a pencil case filled with epipens in her backpack.”

…

When Gansey goes over to the Barns for the first time, she doesn’t really know what to do with herself. Rowan’s older sister, Decla—who’s a hundred times sharper than Rowan and every bit as pretty—takes them on a Friday afternoon. The Volvo rattles a little bit when they hit the gravel of the entryway, and all Gansey can see is _white_. Beautiful, enthralling white. Wisps of brittle grass that dance in the wind, a residue of leaves that hang high up in the apple trees. Decla and Rowan both look bored in entirely different ways, but Gansey grips the headrest of the seat in front of her and takes a long moment to take it all in.

She thinks about how it must look like in the summer. 

“I wish my mansion looked like this.”

Decla and Rowan freeze, eyeing each other simultaneously before bursting into contagious heaps of laughter.

“Oh my god, Gansey,” Rowan groans, “that was such a dick thing to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Gansey frowns as Decla yanks the keys out of the ignition with a shake of her head, entirely amused. “I did not mean for it to sound entitled.”

“You know what,” Rowan says, turning around in her seat, still very obviously trying to contain herself. “Just get out before I make you walk back on your own.”

…

For Christmas, when her sister is in Hawaii and her parents are out for business, Gansey accompanies the Lynch sisters to church. Their parents are there, and the Gansey’s have always been old money, so she’s not worried about first impressions. She shakes Niall Lynch’s hand before accepting a gentle embrace from Aurora and introduces herself as _Richelle Campbell Gansey the Third_ even when Rowan snorts. Decla elbows her, and a smaller, brighter Lynch pops her head out from around the pew to say, “I’m Mattie Lynch the Third, too.”

“That’s not how it works,” Rowan says, ruffling her sister’s blonde ringlets. “But close enough.”

The service is lovely. Gansey’s not very religious, and her parents only go to church for weddings and funerals, but she finds solace in the white of Rowan’s dress, in the fact that Niall skips the formalities and goes straight to asking about her fascination with deceased historical predecessors.

And also, Rowan, turning about fifty shades of pink, when Aurora very innocently says, “You know, Rowan’s told us all about you.”

Gansey finds her hand already next to her own with a smile. She’s told lots of people all about Rowan, too.

…

They kiss for the first time in March. 

They’re on Gansey’s bed, at Monmouth, and Noah’s one room over—she’d moved in a few weeks ago—pretending the walls are soundproof. She presses herself close against Rowan’s chest and fists her hands by the soft of her waist. She feels younger than she has in a while, like she’s been struck dumb, which doesn’t seem like a good thing, but also, kind of is. Rowan’s eyes are closed.

“We’re not dating,” she says, sounding near tears, “We can’t.”

“Rowan,” Gansey says, suddenly alert. “I know.”

Rowan nods and bites her lip before pulling her back in, thin fingers coming up to bury themselves in Gansey’s shower-wavy brown hair. She doesn’t _know_ , but she doesn’t ever want to make Rowan sad, so she takes only what she can give her.

…

“Can you teach me how to pray?”

“Is this your way of telling me you want me to get on my knees for you?”

“Rowan. Lynch.”

“Well, okay.”

…

Thursday afternoon, sometime in the middle of August, only a a few weeks before school starts up again, Gansey gets the call regarding Niall Lynch’s murder.

Or really, it goes like this:

Decla calling Gansey a bit past twelve o’clock, voice terribly steady. Telling her, _Gansey. There’s been an accident. Rowan found our father today. He’s passed._

And Gansey, thinking of Niall Lynch. Of all the times he’d manage to wipe Rowan’s tears after a particularly rough day at school, pulling _The Jungle Book_ or _The Little Prince_ from the shelf. Feigning distress to make them laugh as he skimmed through his favorite chapter, or how he spoke in quicktongue languages that she could never really understand, most of which had died out. How only a few months ago, he’d gifted her an painting of Glendower for Christmas, and then a smaller, nonetheless valuable one to match for New Year’s, because, _You are my daughter’s favorite person, after all_. 

She thought of Aurora, her delicate eyes. Of Decla and Mattie, both of whom she’d seen just a day prior. And she thought of Rowan, who’d once drunkenly whispered to her, _There’s no one else in the world I’d rather have as a dad_.

Decla’s breathing is running wild on the other line of the phone, like she’s almost out of time. Gansey wants to turn back the clock.

“Oh, Decla,” she says, because he was her father too. “I’m on my way.”

…

She finds Rowan in her bedroom, curled up in one of Niall’s big university sweaters and what Gansey recognizes as a pair of Decla’s old sweatpants. She’s shivering, and when Gansey reaches out to touch her she starts to heave ugly, heart-wrenching sobs. 

It’s the saddest Gansey’s ever seen anyone be. Rowan’s sixteen and in love with the gift of _life_ itself. And just a few hours ago, she’d found her father in the driveway with his head bashed in with a cracked skull and a tire iron to show for it. 

“They killed him,” Rowan wails. “They killed him.”

Gansey holds her close and brushes her wild hair away from her face and thinks that every single tale Niall Lynch has ever read was a pointless lie. Kings and Queens never die in the middle, no, they save that part for when the princesses are young. Young because eventually, they’ll have to forget.

" _They killed him_.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gansey says, starting to cry, because it hurts, and because for the first time in her life, she has nothing better to say.

…

The service is on Friday. Gansey sits next to Rowan in the pew up front, wraps a steady arm around her shoulders and hushes her gently when she feels chest begin to crack. A few hours later, Aurora Lynch stops talking. Then she stops moving. Decla hauls her into the back of her Volvo and drives straight towards the hospital, Mattie goes with her, Rowan stays behind.

“There’s a will,” Rowan says, much later, pale and teary-eyed where they’re wrapped up in Rowan’s bed. Gansey wonders how long it’s been since she last slept. “I can’t be here.”

The words are out before she can stop them (and, she wouldn’t want to anyway). “Come live with me.”

Rowan is still against her for a few unbearable seconds, but then she nods.

…

If those few days had been hell on earth, it’s an inferno now. 

Rowan stays entirely quiet for the first week, existing in some sort of empty subverse. She showers a few times a day, scrubs long and hard when she washes her hands. Gansey brings food to her room, answers her phone—Noah, sobbing, _Tell her I’m sorry_ —but she doesn’t eat, and she doesn’t sleep, and she doesn’t really talk.

For a short, scary while, Gansey thinks that maybe she’ll end up like her mother. Catatonic in some psych ward. Held together only by the strength of her heart, betrayed by her brain. 

But then two weeks go past, and Rowan goes out and comes back late with four hickeys, a small grocery bag, and a bottle of Absolut Vodka, and she looks at Gansey somberly before she says, “I’ll be in my room. Don’t knock.”

She doesn’t, and some short hours later Rowan emerges in nothing but one of Gansey’s old t-shirts and underwear, holding up a disconnected razor and sporting a fresh buzzcut. And, she’s crying. 

Gansey rushes over before Rowan can say anything else, wrapping her arms around her in a futile attempt to keep her whole. She runs her fingers along the knobs of her spine, feels the tiny hairs that lay along the crinkles of her shirt and allows herself a moment of uncertainty before she hooks her forefinger in the back of Rowan’s heirloom cross. 

“It’ll be okay,” Gansey says, “It’ll be okay.”

She prays there’s a God up there that’ll actually listen to her.

…

Noah moves in a few days before school starts, and she takes one look at Rowan before she’s sitting down on the couch, hands trembling a little at her sides.

“Come to group with me, _please_.”

Rowan stands, picks at a loose fray from her ripped jeans. She’s spilled beer all over the front of her shirt. “I’m not fucking like you. This isn’t a fucking _choice_ , Noah. Fuck.”

Gansey sucks in a breath, but Noah nods and lets her go, wincing a bit as the door slams shut behind her.

“What do I—”

Noah shuts her eyes. She looks worse than the last time Gansey saw her. “Nothing, Gansey. You do nothing.”

…

Sometime around September, a few weeks into school, Gansey gets a boyfriend. It’s not terrible, not at all. Greg is intelligent and kind and an excellent tennis player, and he’s sort of friends with Rowan, or used to be. She’s not sure where Rowan stands with most people nowadays. 

They go out for lunch whenever they can, and though Gansey makes sure to schedule them diligently—color coding the dates on her calendar with _extra_ care—she also makes sure Greg is aware of the fact that she simply can’t skip her dates with Rowan, because that’s always going to come first. Greg's brows furrow every single time she cancels, but he nods seriously and bends down to gently kiss her cheek with lingering sweetness, and Noah purses her lips but doesn’t say anything about it. 

Around the same time, Rowan starts hanging around with Josephine Kavinsky. A lanky, corpse of a girl who spends her time between three dangerous gigs: Manufacturing IDs, hosting ragers, and street racing. She’s disgusting in a way that exceeds all types of vulgarity. Paris Hilton’s vulgar, Rowan’s vulgar, and hell, so is _Decla_ . Kavinsky’s all toxic bloodstream and tight grips, fast cars and big bottles of pills. Baggies filled to the brim with white powder. Every single time Rowan comes home swaying on her feet, sporting fresh welts on her neck, Gansey has to fight the urge to call Decla for advice. This, she realizes, is what it means to spiral. This is _the tempest_.

Greg breaks up with Gansey in December and Rowan and Noah press against her in the couch, alternating between stroking her hair and throwing bits of popcorn around before her sniffles turn into tiny giggles. She’s been expecting it for a while, but still, it hurts.

“Rowan,” she whispers, long after Noah’s fallen asleep. 

Rowan pauses _Moonrise Kingdom_ with a weary little smile. “Yeah, Gansey?” 

“Thank you.”

Gansey cries a little as Rowan slings an arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm in tight, gentle circles. They both need this tonight. “Yeah, whatever. Just don’t get any of your fucking snot on my shirt.”

…

Gansey’s ordered home for Christmas, and it hits her suddenly that Rowan has no one to go _home_ to.

(She had no one for birthday either, but Gansey’d been there, steadily, outside of her bedroom door.)

“Rowan,” she says, staring at where Rowan’s perked on the kitchen counter. “Come home with me. You know my parents would love to have you.”

“Yeah,” Rowan says, a little bitterly. It doesn’t really sound like she believes her. Truthfully, Gansey’s not sure what they’d say. It's been over a year since they’d seen her, and back then Rowan had been all bouncy curls and playful jaunts. She’d been tucked in blouses and manicured nails, she’d been bright-eyed in a way she wasn’t now. Won’t ever be, again. 

And Gansey knows, they’ll be too polite to really talk about Niall, but it’ll hang in the air for the entire week and it really would be unbearable. So Gansey can’t bring herself to push when Rowan chews on a wristband and weakly mutters out, “I’m going to church with Decla and Mattie. I’m good.”

And also, because even if the last part isn’t really true, at least she won’t be alone.

…

They fight in ways that she isn’t really sure count as fights. There’s only a few months left in the school year, but Rowan’s close to flunking nearly all her classes. She skips exams to hang out with Kavinsky, and she fights with Decla more often than not. Gansey won’t yell at her, she isn’t sure she ever could, but she sits down with her and very seriously says, _Rowan, I’m worried about you_ , and then Rowan’s getting up and throwing around a string of curses and a few plates and Gansey’s suddenly fighting back an onset tears.

She drinks, a lot, in ways that can’t be healthy for someone her age—of any age, really—and she picks up street racing. She goes on night runs, all the time, and all of that is worrying, extremely so, but then she goes missing for an entirety of two days, and Gansey’s about to call the police or Decla or _someone_ , but then there's a jangle of keys at the door and Rowan stumbles in, shivering in running shorts and a sports bra and sporting a _massive_ outline of a tattoo on her back. 

“Oh,” Gansey says, heart catching in her throat. “ _Rowan_.”

Noah blinks from her spot on the floor, dull eyes sinking to Rowan’s shoulder blades. It’s a big thing, made up of a plethora of intricate celtic designs. Knots and feathers and swirls that make Gansey’s head spin. Rowan scowls at them before storming into her room, the door closes quietly behind her, it’s the loudest she’s ever been.

“Noah,” Gansey whispers, then stops herself before she starts panicking. _God._

“Decla’s not going to be happy about that,” Noah says simply, turning a bony wrist over for inspection.

She’s not, and it’s chaos for a few days. They avoid each other like magnets for weeks afterwards, and Decla stops coming over entirely. Rowan goes to two more sessions to get the rest filled in, wincing in obvious pain when she takes her tank top off. Gansey’s there to change the bandages every single time.

…

Sometime in November, her junior year, Gansey meets Addison Parrish.

She’d stopped over on her bike and helped her start the Pig up. Gansey had pointed her out to Rowan a few weeks earlier, back when she’d first transferred to Aglionby, who’d looked away and pretended she hadn’t heard her. She’s just as kind as Gansey thought she’d be, focused and calculating in a way that sort of _intimidates_. But she puts up with her ramble of Glendower, so Gansey takes it in stride. 

She brings her over during lunch, decidedly set on becoming her friend. Noah offers her a tiny, enthusiastic hug, and Rowan’s eyes go wide with recognition before she’s folding her arms across her chest in feigned indignance—Gansey _knows_ —and she sort of worries for a few seconds. Rowan looks absolutely lethal in her ripped skinny jeans and laced up combat boots, tattoo peeking out from the back of her skirt. Most people avoid her all together now, but Addison only rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand, which Rowan begrudgingly accepts. 

It feels a little bit like a beginning.

…

It’s difficult at first, and Gansey obtains several migraines from hearing them bicker over who gets to sit where and why Addison should just ditch the bike, and how no, Rowan, Calculus isn’t _that_ difficult. There are several instances in which Rowan gets so upset she’ll lock herself in her room, or Gansey will see Addison bite _hard_ on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something mean, which she’s immensely grateful for. There’s a startling difference between the two, Addison cares too much, and Rowan doesn’t care at all. 

And, one night, when Rowan comes over hammered out of her mind, tripping over her own two feet and breaking a vase on her way to her room, Addison shoots up from her place on the couch and insists, “Why the _hell_ is she still living here?”

It sounds cruel and so entirely unlike Addison that Gansey doesn’t let the anger get to her.

“She’s my best friend,” she says, carefully, because it’s the truth, because it’s what Rowan would want her to always, always stick to. “And because she has nowhere else to go.”

Addison softens after that, nods tiredly as she sits back down. 

“Well,” she says, and her voice is gravel. “I guess that’s the one thing about her that I understand.”

…

One night, Addison misses school. It wouldn’t be that unusual coming from anyone else, people are allowed sick days, after all, Aglionby isn’t a _prison_ , despite what Rowan’s snarky remarks say. But, Addison has a perfect attendance streak that Rowan gives her relentless shit for, and Addison isn’t just _anyone_ else. She’s a scholarship case, she’s a perfectionist all on her own. 

She shows up the next day with a blooming bruise on the outskirts of her nose, one eye already swelling shut. It’s scary, and Gansey’s seen Rowan punch and get punched enough times to know what it is, even before Addison mutters, _It’s nothing_ , out loud. 

“What the fuck,” Rowan breathes out, Noah looks like she might faint.

Gansey has to sit down, giving herself a moment's thought before opening her mouth.

Addison shuts her up with a look, her knuckles whitening around her fork. The table is entirely silent before she says, again. “It’s nothing.”

Gansey pushes up the sleeves of her jumper, slipping on her glasses, nodding. 

Rowan tosses her a cookie, looking bored. Her hands give it away; they’re shaking. “I’m not hungry.”

Gansey watches as Addison raises an eyebrow, she knows that if it were any other day she’d be protesting. Today, Addison tosses it into her bag with a sigh and promptly accepts Gansey’s follow up offer to drive her home. Even though it’s something that she really, really doesn’t want her to do. Addison will go anyway and she couldn’t stand the idea of her biking home like this. 

“Suggestions?” Rowan says from the backseat, already connecting her phone to the AUX, and then, not a beat later, “Parrish?”

“The Killers.”

Rowan’s smile is all sharp teeth. “Good choice.”

…

In February, Rowan _breaks_. 

Gansey had been asleep while it happened. The _one_ night her brain had allowed her rest. Noah wakes her up with a shrill scream and then the sound of terrified footsteps racing for Gansey’s room, and her hands, clammy and shaky against her arms, roughly yanking her out of sleep.

Gansey’s up before she fully registers what’s happening, because Noah’s coughing up horrible sobs and her hands are covered in blood but she’s not bruised or cut anywhere. And then, _Rowan. God, Rowan_.

She calls Addison from the ambulance, tries her absolute hardest to steady her breathing and look anywhere but at Rowan’s limp body, barely conscious on the folded up stretcher next to her, whimpering a little every time they so much as turn streets, breaths coming up in little puffs of condensation on the oxygen mask strapped over her face. 

“Addison,” she says, and Gansey doesn’t miss the way her breathing picks up on the other line. She wonders if this is how Decla felt when she called her that night. “I’m on my way to the hospital—Rowan’s—She tried to—”

There’s a pause, and then an unfamiliar voice that says, “I’ll try to see if I can leave.”

Gansey nods even though she knows Addison can’t see her, and she hangs up and runs her fingers through Rowan’s hair as she starts to cry, frightened and silent and unbearably confused. 

Noah doesn’t come and no one really tries to make her. Decla and Mattie show up a few hours later that night, equal parts hysterical in entirely different ways. Addison runs in first thing in the morning. She’s not wearing a coat even though it’s below freezing and there are black and blue marks on her jaw that hadn’t been there two days ago. She sounds exhausted and congested, but she sits next to Rowan and puts a hand on her good arm and promises that as soon as she gets out, they’ll _go and light some shit on fire_. 

She’s not sure that it’s what Rowan needs. It might take a while before Rowan’s able to do those kinds of things again, she still needs to heal. Decla looks like she wants to protest, the nurses share brief, disapproving looks. 

It makes Rowan laugh though, and for now, Gansey thinks it might be enough. 

…

When Rowan’s released from the hospital three days later, she’s unbearable. Cranky and tired and worn out enough that she allows Decla to drive them both home without a hint of protest. Gansey fights the urge to wrap her arms around her by staring at the suicide pamphlets in her lap as Rowan traces the bandages on her arm with frustrated disdain. Noah gives her a long, teary hug when they open the door and a homemade _get well soon_ card that appears to have been drenched in craft store glitter. It’s sweet of her, and Rowan takes the card with a weak grip and hugs her back just as tightly.

Gansey sneaks into her room later that night bearing advil and chamomile tea. She shudders through a hitch of a sob when she sees her, because, curled up on the futon, in her boxers and one of Gansey’s worn _Oxford_ jumpers, Rowan looks smaller than she has in a long time. 

“I’m sorry,” Rowan murmurs into her shoulder, when they’re both situate themselves against each other on the queen-sized bed. She’s not crying. “I’m really sorry.”

“You can’t. Rowan. You can’t do this to me. Please.”

“I won’t. Gansey, I didn’t mean to— _I’m sorry._ ”

“I love you,” Gansey says, and she wills her voice to carry. 

Rowan shuts her eyes and nestles furter into the crook of her neck, her breathing hot and wild against her collarbone. “I love you too.”

…

Rowan doesn’t actually get better.

Granted, she doesn’t get worse. She’s not actually failing anything except maybe Algebra II, and Gansey makes sure to check, always, that there are still twenty-two knives in the set before bed, and she’s there steadily, every time Rowan comes in drunk or high after a nigh out with Kavinsky. Rowan doesn’t stop being Rowan, or whatever this version of Rowan is, and Addison stays true to her word. They go out and Rowan teaches Addison how to climb fences and burst down doors, they light bonfires deep into the woods as Gansey reads out loud from her journal. For the most part, it seems like there’s nothing to worry about. Not anymore.

But, Gansey finds it impossible to forget the picture of Rowan laying in her bed, knife dropped in her open palm. The underside of her wrist torn apart. How she’d been dreaming of kings in her own room, entirely unaware. 

She can’t bring herself to _really_ fall sleep again.

…

Blue Sargent comes into her life right before May. 

She’s a firecracker composed of colorful fabrics and olive skin, constantly arguing her way into any conversation. She comes from a family of psychics, and she drags them all to protests and cheap bodegas, and Gansey falls for her _hard._

Addison had befriended her first, and then Noah, and Rowan had come around only because Gansey had pleaded with her, begged, for nearly all of summer. Rowan likes Bue though, Gansey can tell, because they’re both secretly into Carly Rae Jepsen and less secretly into Amy Winehouse, and Rowan lets her hold Chainsaw, who’s about as off-limits as her dad’s old BMW.

“Blue’s really something, isn’t she?”

Rowan isn’t sure what Gansey’s talking about when she says it, what she _means_ by it. It’s obvious. Nevertheless, she nods like she does and takes a long swig of Gin with a careless little shrug. “Yeah, dude. She’s okay.”

Gansey smiles. From Rowan, it means she’s _wonderful._

…

She sits in the waiting room, swallowing stones.

Rowan Lynch punched Robert Parrish in the face. _Robert Parrish_. She’s angry, but she’s also proud, and worried. She’s entirely beside herself in the situation. A stranger. 

She fights with Addison in the waiting room only because they both know Gansey will never truly understand. And when Addison moves into Monmouth a short while later, she watches Rowan carry all of Addison’s belongings up the stairs while a bored expression decorates her features with distant respect. They go into Noah’s room, and everyone lets them be.

Gansey pushes open the creaking door a few hours later—when Blue and Noah have gone back to 300 Fox Way—hovering by the doorway. Rowan peers at her from her spot on the bed, eyes huge and unblinking. Addison’s pressed up against her shoulder, statue still and seemingly asleep with Rowan’s bright blue headphones placed over her ears. 

“She really fell asleep listening to Murder Squash?”

Rowan shrugs, the hollow of her cheek dusting pink. “The National. I knew they’d put us all to sleep one day.”

Gansey bites back a grin. She thinks of Rowan’s fists and she of the gentleness of her now, how terribly human this all is. She thinks of how the first book she’d ever caught Addison reading was _Peter Pan_. And she thinks of Peter and Wendy and what it means to fly away and never come back. She thinks of the lost boys and of parents and of children who won’t ever get the chance to grow up. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, Gansey’s glad Addison’s home with her now.

“Sleep well,” she says, and it sounds like a plea. “Wake me up if you need to.”

Rowan chews on a wristband. “She’ll be okay, Gansey. We got her out. I mean, fuck. There’s a trial, and yeah, it’s going to be shit. But he could’ve killed her. Jesus, he could’ve killed her. She’s deaf in one ear and she’s concussed as fuck, but. She’s alive. Gansey, she’s here. That’s what matters.”

 _Oh Rowan_ , Gansey wants to say, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods. “Indeed.’ 

…

Josephine Kavinsky kills herself in July, at one of her legendary parties that she and Blue and Rowan—and _Mattie_ **—** had been attending. It’s perhaps the worst thing Gansey had ever seen, she’d lit a fire and walked right in it, banged up and drugged and so wildy sad. When the cops managed to get through the crowd, Rowan had taken her sister’s hand on her own and marched towards the car with startling grace that Gansey hadn’t known she could possess. 

They drop Mattie off first, with Decla, and then they all sit there silently for a few minutes, right outside Blue’s driveway. She can make Calla out on the front porch.

“Are you okay?” Blue asks before she gets out, bringing a hand up to Rowan’s shoulder. They’d both been eerily quiet the entire car ride. 

Rowan doesn’t flinch away, and Gansey pretends not to notice how her lip quivers when she answers, “I wanted it to be me. For a long time. I wanted it to be me,”

Blue wraps her arms around Rowan’s neck and presses a kiss to her cheek with heartbreaking gentleness. She says, “Rowan,” like it’s the last time she’ll get the chance.

“It’s different now.”

“Yeah?” Gansey whispers, careful not to scare whatever lingering thought Rowan has away. 

“Yeah,” she leans back against the seat. “Yeah.”

…

Rowan drops out of school her senior year.

She goes for the first few months, mainly because she still enjoys English and Latin and getting to see Addison (Gansey _knows_ ), but also because she’s trying to make a conscious effort. For her sisters, maybe, but also for Gansey. It’s nice, and it gives her a flutter of hope in the pit of her chest. But then Rowan shows up on a Friday with a determined furrow of her brow, a bunch of papers stuffed into a folder. Gansey waits for Rowan to tell her what she already knows.

When Rowan very seriously situates herself on the couch and says, _Guess you’re officially best friends with a high school drop out_ , she squeezes Rowan’s knee and doesn’t try to stop her.

Rowan’s not a kid anymore. She’s not _that_ kid anymore. 

Gansey takes both of Rowan’s hands in her own. “Excelsior.”

Rowan nods. “Onwards and upwards.”

Gansey knows whatever she plans to do with her life will be nothing short of brilliant. 

…

Opal’s a loud, vibrant kid with tufts of blonde hair held together with colorful scrunchies. She nibbles on cardboard. She has freckles. She lives in children’s home a few minutes away from Blue’s house. Her parents didn’t want her enough to stay.

She makes Rowan smile like she hasn’t in years, she tolerates both Murder Squash and Chainsaw. She loves holding Addison’s hands.

She’s five years old. Rowan falls a little bit more in love with her every single day. Gansey can’t blame her, she does too.

…

Addison says, “I kissed Rowan last night.”

Gansey’s surprised, but also, not really. She lets Addison talk for whoever long she needs to, and then because Rowan’s her best friend, she asks her, pleads, really, not to break her. She regrets it immediately, because Addison’s responding instantly, hostile and a little hurt. The unspoken, meanincing _why does it always come down to this?_ hangs in the air

Gansey takes a breath, and then she says, “I guess it’s about being honest with yourself,” and thinks of Blue. Of her skin, of her eyes. The mismatched fabrics of her skirt. 

They show up together at Monmouth the next day. Addison’s bundled in one of Niall’s old university jumpers and Rowan’s normally sunken cheekbones are dusted with pink. They aren’t touching, but halfway through _Pan’s Labyrinth_ , when the Pale Man appears and Rowan shrinks away from the screen, Gansey watches as Addison wraps a steady arm around her waist to pull her closer. She puts a hand to Rowan’s lips and hushes her gently, quietly. She’s sure Addison thought she wouldn’t notice it it.

But Gansey’s been an observer all her life. 

Rowan’s eyes glaze over, and they both look at each other for a moment before they return their gazes to the screen. Rowan isn’t looking at Gansey, and they don’t let each other go.

Gansey pats Addison’s knee with a dignified smile, and through the reflection of the T.V, Gansey sees her smile right back.

…

Things for Gansey had been going okay

Maybe too okay, she supposes. They’re only a few short weeks from graduation; She’d taken Blue on a few dates; She’d met brave, kind friends; Rowan had moved back into the Barns for good; Addison was selected for valedictorian. 

She wants to celebrate. She wants to toast to all her friends and thank whatever God is up there that Rowan’s still here, achingly alive. Orphaned and bent in painful, twisted ways and still breathing. But first, she wants to kiss Blue. 

She purchases a soft blanket and a picnic basket from Pottery Barn and remembers to cut off the price tag, and Henrietta **—** who’s becoming one of her fast friends **—** helps her bake cookies and shape them into tiny stars. She burns the first batch, and by the end she’s covered in flour and yellow frosting, and she might’ve mistaken salt for sugar, but they _look_ perfect. Gansey takes that as a win and packs a few yogurt cups, just in case. 

Blue laughs when Gansey shows up at her doorstep, clad in a beige dress and black loafers, clutching the basket with an excited little smile. She’d visited Rowan earlier, who’d rolled her eyes fondly and kissed her cheek. “The tiny maggot would be an idiot not to kiss you,” she’d said. Gansey had hugged her tight.

They drive up in the Pig and decide on a field near Nino’s, and they lay out on the tall grass and drink lemonade and eat both the majority of the cookies _and_ the yogurt cups. And then it’s starting to get dark and she can feel Blue’s breath on her collarbone from where they’re curled up together on the blanket. 

Gansey says, “Kiss me, Blue. _Please_.”

Blue does.

…

And then they get _swarmed_ by an angry group bees on the way back to the car, which will be devastatingly funny when she wakes up in the hospital, but certainly isn’t now. She can’t breathe, and her entire body feels lead, and ten minutes ago she was itchy all over but now she’s not anymore. 

She closes her eyes and prays that her world will still be there when she opens them back up.

…

Rowan’s sobbing wakes her up, hot and desperate against the paper of her gown. Gansey makes out Addison, who’s rubbing her legs over the bedsheets in small, soothing circles, and Henrietta, resting her head on the palm of her hands and stays where is. Pensive by the window of her hospital room. Blue stands, all messy hair and red-rimmed eyes by the doorway.

She doesn’t really mean to, but she voices it out loud. “That wasn’t scheduled in as part of our date.”

Everyone’s quiet for exactly three seconds, stunned. Henrietta doubles over with manic laughter in the next two, and Addison and Blue join in when they see Gansey crack a tired little smile. Noah appears next to Blue, a combination between distressed and relieved. Her throat still hurts.

Rowan sniffs once and wipes her eyes, Gansey sees her take Addison’s hand. “Can everyone in this room please stop fucking dying? Jesus.”

Gansey locks her pinky with hers and promptly falls back asleep.

…

Gansey presses the phone to her ear and draws out a hysterical sigh. “I did not expect our first kiss to go so horribly.”

Rowan scoffs on the other end of the line. “Look at the bright side, at least you’re still alive.”

…

Addison’s speech is about finding light.

She’s looking at Rowan the whole time. Gansey makes her out in the crowd and waves. She mouths, _Excelsior_. Rowan mouths back, _Onwards and upwards_ with a quirk of her lips.

Addison takes her diploma in her hands and lifts it up in the air, an official Aglionby graduate. Rowan stands from her seat and shrieks with pride. Gansey’s right there with her.

…

Before she leaves for Venezuela, she stops by the Barns. 

Rowan and Addison are both there, sitting calmly by the big kitchen island, tangled up with each other on one of the wooden stools. Opal’s upstairs, sleeping. 

She goes to Addison first, who stands and wraps her arms around her tightly. She smells of moss and morning dew, of daisies and Rowan’s chamomile soap. Gansey cries a bit into her shoulder as Addison pets her hair, swiping a thumb under Gansey’s glasses. Her eyes are unbelievably bright. 

She pulls away to wipe her face dry. “It’s been an honor.”

Addison shakes her head and pokes her in the ribs. “You’ll always have me, Gans.”

Gansey nods and nearly starts crying all over again. Addison chuckles faintly and lets her arms fall to her sides, pecking Rowan’s lips before ascending up the stairs, giving the two some space.

Rowan leans heavily against the counter, her blue eyes shining. There was a time, some months ago, when she would’ve given anything to have her old, familiar Rowan back. The Rowan who’d take part in Irish jigs and who’d spray Mattie with the garden hose until she was squealing with laughter. Who’d read Heaney and Yeats out loud after dinner, who’d get her curls stuck in little toy fans. The Rowan before her parents, before Kavinsky, before Noah.

Rowan shrugs. “No hug then, Gansey?”

It takes a few quick steps to get to her, but then Gansey’s throwing her arms around her neck and sobbing, and so is Rowan, which is neither strange nor unfamiliar anymore. 

“Rowan,” Gansey says through her tears, linking her arms around her back. “You are the greatest gift life could’ve given me.”

Rowan chokes out a watery laugh. “I love you too, Gansey.”

But Gansey likes her now, like this. Tough and crude and a bit harsh, as powerful as an uncut diamond. She’s both beautiful and brave, she’s as clever as it gets. Gansey presses her lips to Rowan’s warm cheek and takes her in as she is, held together by ripped denim shorts and a shirt she’s sure is Addison’s, wearing Aurora’s necklace and Niall’s watch, her hair freshly shaven. There’s a tiny crown tattooed on her pinky finger that hadn’t been there a week ago. 

Rowan is a found wonder of Gansey’s big world. She’s up there with the royals. With Glendower. With God.

Gansey squeezes her tightly and pulls away, and Rowan steps back. Her eyes dart between the wall behind them and Gansey’s nose, and she’s about to ask Rowan if she’s okay but then Rowan pulls out a tiny gift bag. In it, she makes out a Murder Squash shirt and a brand new journal. 

“Oh Rowan,” she whispers. Her chest feels tight.

“Go,” Rowan says, standing up straight under the glaring light that bursts in through the window. “Go be great. Go discover. Go _learn_. Christ, fuck.”

Gansey nods shakily and kisses her cheek one last time. She makes her way to the door, steps out into the front porch. The leaves have started to fall, they make large puddles on the edges of the driveway. She can imagine a promise of summer, of rebirth. 

There was a time Gansey would have rather died than leave Rowan behind. It’s a good thing they still have time; on that she’d bet her life. 

…

When Gansey is twenty-one years old, Rowan publishes a children’s book.

She’s at Oxford going over her flashcards when she gets the package. Her roommate stares at her from across the room, curious and confused when she tears it open and lays the bundled book up on her lap with upmost care.

It’s a spin of Achilles and his heel. A funny little thing about a King and a wasp, the bite that overtook his heart. It’s about changing fate, about rising from the ashes. There’s a hazel-eyed boy on the cover. He wears glasses and boat shoes.

Gansey’s breath hitches as she skims through the ink on the dedication page. In perfect font, she makes out: _Excelsior._

Below it, _Onwards and Upwards._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr! come find me @irisella.


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